


when I fall asleep and dream

by Kamekatze



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: English Line, Idols, K-Pop - Freeform, M/M, i‘m just really soft for dowoon, they‘re in love, wonpil in a choker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22777333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamekatze/pseuds/Kamekatze
Summary: In all of five years, Dowoon had not once admitted out loud to enjoying their late night talks.He would always make space for his hyung, without question, and would extend his arm as a pillow, sure.But he’d be embarrassed, when someone brought it up in the morning.He'd choose a mosquito over him on live radio.
Relationships: Kang Younghyun | Young K/Park Jaehyung | Jae, Kim Wonpil & Yoon Dowoon, Kim Wonpil/Yoon Dowoon
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	1. Sunrise

It’s strangely quiet in the Day6 dorms. That in itself is quite unusual.  
The time is nearing 12 at night, so you wouldn’t expect to hear any guitar strumming or singing. There’s been less fighting, since their move into a flat with five proper bedrooms, and Sungjin got them new noise-cancelling headphones for their shared gaming PCs, to stop them from screaming while playing.  
Also, Jae isn’t home. 

Still, the quiet seems too harsh.

Wonpil can’t sleep, and he sure as hell can’t lie wide awake in silence any longer. He has to do something about it.  
With a sigh, he kicks off his blanket and gets out of bed.

The hallway is dark and empty. There had been an extensive debate on how to decorate the bare white walls, but Sungjin had strongly vetoed putting up posters of themselves, and everyone’s music tastes were to aware to agree on any one other artists.  
So, for now, they just get to admire the wallpaper.

Brian is in the kitchen when Wonpil steps in.  
The older is sat at the dining table, head propped up on one arm, fighting to keep his eyes open for some video playing on his phone.  
“Hey, hyung,” Wonpil greets.  
Brian gives him a tired look, then mumbles a hello.  
He goes back to his video as Wonpil pours himself some water.  
Wonpil stands there, for a few moments, leaning on the counter and sipping from his mug.  
It had been quite a day.

They’d started off with a radio appearance, smalltalk with Lee Hongki and two acoustic songs, plus a solo from Sunjin and himself. Wonpil hadn’t even had the time to feel bad about his mumbled English lyrics. They went straight into the office, then their practice rooms. A quick recording session in the afternoon, then finally Inkigayo.  
They were in the midst of promoting the new EP, hence the hectic schedule, while simultaneously producing the next one and preparing for a concert coming up - which will be tomorrow already, Wonpil realizes. Technically, today.  
Such is the idol life: There can be no calm if you’re always busy brewing up the next storm.  
They had it god, though. No dancing and all.

Wonpil takes the last sip and sets the mug down on the table, leaving it for breakfast.  
Brian is fully collapsed onto the table, barely peeping at the phone in his hand. “Night, hyung”, Wonpil says. Brian yawns.

On his way back, Wonpil passes Sungjin’s room. His former roommate’s door is slightly ajar.  
Their leader is inside, struggling to peel out of a dress shirt, too lazy to open all the buttons, getting his head stuck. Wonpil is too tired to laugh.  
“Goodnight, hyung”, he says, when Sungjin breaks free.  
“Uh huh”, agrees the Busan man. “We’ve got a 7AM tomorrow, Pillie. Let’s get some sleep.”  
As Sungjin carefully folds his short, Wonpil pulls the door shut and tiptoes on.

There’s a bang in the entrance way, a clutter and rumble, then a pronounced English swear.  
Jae is home.  
“Fuck me. Who’d put his damn boots in my fucking spot?” 

At the end of the Inkigayo recordings, their oldest had run into some of his foreign friends. The gang had spontaneously agreed on some movie to catch, drinks after implied, and Jae had excused himself from his band’s ride to the dorms.  
Whenever the LA native went out with his friends like that, his members knew he would hit a serious low after. Even after some years, Korea and its language were still an adjustment for Jae. He had recently admitted to feeling neither here nor there, falling more and more out of touch with his origins. He misses his motherland, so he goes to these gatherings. Then, he misses it even more. It’s quite hard for Jae.

Wonpil hears the oldest complain to Brian, probably because the part-time Canadian had denied that day’s invitation again. In an only slightly more relaxed tone, Brian complains back.  
Kang Younghyun isn’t always confident in his English. He’s out of practice, not enough speed in his second language to feel like tagging along with a bunch of hyped-up Americans.  
Wonpil expects another jab from Jae, but there’s only silence. 

He’s about to turn and go check on his hyungs. But there’s a loud sigh, a chair being dragged around, then someone plopping themselves down.  
“Whatcha watching?”, asks Jae. “Shrek 2”, says Brian.  
Wonil huffs a laugh.

With all of his hyungs soundly accounted for, he continues on his way.  
He opens the door carefully, then inches it shut behind him.  
There’s no real light in the room, save for the pulsing blue emitted by a charging headset. The famed pink sweater is thrown over a chair. Printouts of song lyrics are strewn about, sheets of piano arrangements and guitar chords inbetween.  
Wonpil kicks off his slippers on a corner, neatly places them under a chair.  
He feels the soft carpet underneath his bare feet as he finally makes for the bed. 

His lying down is a mix of deliberating the perfect position, and just letting himself fall. Wonpil tugs the duvet over his legs, rests his head on the heavenly pillow, and is ready to sleep at last.

Dowoon opens an eye.

After assessing the situation, he lets out a whiny hyung.  
“Uh huh”, Wonpil echoes their leader, “let’s get some sleep, Dowoonie!”  
Dowoon groans and makes a point of pretending to shove Wonpil away, but concedes some space to the invader. 

Their sleeping together has been a thing for five years.  
Wonpil started bugging the shy new maknae pretty much at first sight, taking all the liberties of an older brother caring for the youngest through tough love. Once Dowoon began growing comfortable with his members, and once Wonpil’s teasing tickled him out of his introverted shell, they realized they had found a fantastic partner in crime.  
As they were both more uncomfortable with speaking up than the other members, they often happened to end up on the sidelines of the action, talking and joking amongst themselves.  
Wonpil had long taken a liking to Dowoon’s squishy cheeks and the drummer’s strong arms, and never shied away from skinship. So, one day he simply decided that their jolly good time together should not be cut short by a bedtime. And that was that.

In all of five years, Dowoon had not once admitted out loud to enjoying their late night talks.  
He would always make space for his hyung, without question, and would extend his arm as a pillow, sure. But he’d be embarrassed, when someone brought it up in the morning. He’d joke about it with the members, he’d laughingly beg Wonpil to stop, he’d choose a mosquito over him on live radio.  
Wonpil isn’t hurt by that, catching onto the humor and easily going along with the jokes. However, he has yet to understand why Dowoon couldn’t just chill out and enjoy some platonic cuddling, why there always has to be awkward laughter, sheepish smiles and fiery red ears.  
Wonpil really enjoys their times together, he wouldn’t trade it for anything else. And he knows the other maknae feel just the same.  
Still, after years of discussing their deepest hopes and dreams, after holding each other as if for dear life through the shock of Junhyeok’s departure, after all the embarrassing moments that such close quarters had subjected them to… there are still nights like this one, where Wonpil felt like his partner in crime is shutting him out of something.

They’re both on their backs, squeezed into the queen-sized bed. Dowoon’s left arm serves as a neckroll for Wonpil, who always needs two pillows at least.  
Wonpil turns his head to study his dongsaeng, whose eyes are falling shut.

“Sungjin-hyung got stuck in his shirt”, he recounts the evening’s events. “Brian nearly fell asleep watching Shrek, and Jae is a sad American again.” 

“Our hyungs are a mess”, Dowoon mumbles, his voice hoarse and deep from exhaustion.  
Wonpil snorts. “It’s incredible how they pull themselves together on stage though. Imagine what kind of mess our concerts could be.”  
Dowoon doesn’t laugh. He hums, as if distant in thought.  
Wonpil senses something. “Are you nervous for our duet tomorrow?” 

Bingo. 

Dowoon sighs. Wonpil won’t have it. He playfully hits Dowoon’s chest.  
“Your singing is so good now, don’t you dare be nervous anymore - remember who practiced with you, you brat!”  
It’s true: The maknae’s vocals might not be quite perfect yet, but his hard work has definitely been paying off. Seeing his strong improvement, the company green-lit a unit stage of Dowoon and Wonpil. They will be doing One More Chance’s “I Think About You”.

Wonpil makes himself comfortable on Dowoon again.  
Quietly, he starts on the chorus of their songs. “I always think about you, every day, I think about you…”  
Dowoon groans. “Hyung, stop. We’ll do it tomorrow.”  
“When I fall asleep and dream, I think about you-”  
“Ah, Hyung!”  
“Alright, I’ll stop”, Wonpil laughs, “but only because it’s late.” 

He yawns. 

“Let’s just sleep”, Dowoon says through a yawn of his own.  
He makes to pull his surely asleep arm from underneath Wonpil’s head.  
They may share a bed for the night, but Dowoon still prefers to keep some distance at night, just to fall asleep quicker. Wonpil doesn’t though. Which is why they wake up tangled more often than not. 

“No!”  
Wonpil doesn’t budge.  
He grabs and holds onto the younger, to prevent his comfortable pillow’s escape.  
“Ah, hyung-”  
“No! I’m asleep. I can’t move.”

Exasperatedly, Dowoon props himself up on his free arm.  
He glares down on his small hyung, who is hogging most of the blanket and blinking up at him, feigning innocence. 

They do that sometimes, just stare.  
Usually it’s Dowoon starting a staring match, as fanservice of sorts. Putting his face so close that Wonpil won’t know wether to laugh it off or blush and look away.  
He’s been doing it on national television.  
When they monitor the shows with the members, Wonpil has to admit it’s kind of funny.  
It seems different now, though. 

Against the sparse light in the room, Wonpil can hardly make out the way Dowoon’s face is scrunched up in seeming agony.  
His heart starts skipping beats, as he waits for the other’s next move.  
Suddenly, he feels a hitching breath on his skin.  
Soft black locks curl against his forehead.  
Fluttering eyelashes. 

Oh.

Dowoon reached around Wonpil with his free arm.  
Leaning over his hyung, chest to chest with wide eyes, their lips meet. 

It’s soft and it’s fast. It’s little more than a tender peck, but it feels like a short eternity, to them.

When they pull away, Dowoon’s breath still lingers on Wonpil’s own. Their faces are only inches apart. 

Wonpil watches Dowoon watching him.  
He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t even consciously wished for this.  
But it makes sense.  
It feels right, this. What this kiss might mean.  
Dowoon’s voice is a whispering rasp.  
“Hyung… you know, I like you.” 

Wonpil answers without a thought. 

“I like you too, Dowoon-ah. I like you a lot.” 

After a prolonged exhale, breathing any worries and questions and doubts off his chest, Wonpil pulls Dowoon in again, to meet the smile that’s forming on the younger’s face. Dowoon slots one of his legs between Wonpil’s, to shift his weight and free one of his arms.  
Their kisses are closed-mouthed and slow. 

They had both been with other people, before, but this is new, and this is special. They match each other’s pace, cautiously discovering this intimacy. 

Wonpil’s skinny fingers card through Dowoon’s hair, one hand coming to rest on the nape of his neck, the other wandering over a drum-trained biceps and down, until he catches Dowoon’s hand where it’s caressing his own cheek, subtly guiding their movements into a rhythm. Their fingers intertwine and fall on the pillow. It’s very cheesy, and they smile.

When they pull away for air one time, Wonpil decides to try one thing he had had on his mind before. Not in this vein, obviously. Not imagining their relationship to ever play out this way.  
It was more of an objective wonderment at the time, an appreciative observation.  
Curious, Wonpil presses a kiss right on Dowoon’s throat, where his freakishly sharp jawline meets his neck.  
Dowoon lets out an involuntary sound. Not quite a moan, but just along the line.  
The drummer picks up the pace.

Chastity makes way for curiosity. The kisses are hungry now, open-mouthed.  
Dowoon untangles their hands, instead gripping onto Wonpil’s face again. Tilting back the other’s head slightly, he finally slips his tongue past Wonpil’s lips.  
Wonpil moans. 

His world seems to stop for a moment as the youngest first tentatively explores his mouth.  
Their tongues aren’t battling for dominance; they are taking in the foreign sensation together, a slow back-and-forth. 

Lips swollen and breath ragged, they break for air again. Dowoon takes that as a cue to venture further.  
An image pops up in his head: their stage outfits, how good they will look. Wonpil in a deep-neck Tee.  
Wonpil in a choker.  
Fuck.

Wonpil yelps in surprise. The singer gets increasingly vocal as his neck and collarbones are littered with hard kisses bordering on lovebites.  
Lovebites?

Dowoon reads his mind. “I’ve got a really good concealer”, he says, pausing between words to latch onto Wonpil’s skin again.  
Wonpil would have complained, weren’t he currently busy having the time of his life.

When their lips clash together again, Wonpil unclasps his hand from where he was unconsciously tugging on the younger’s locks. Slowly, his fingers dance along Dowoon’s arms.  
His muscular shoulders, his straining neck.  
Wonpil ghosts over Dowoon’s sides, where he knows the maknae has a ticklish spot.  
His hand comes to rest on Dowoon’s hip, going along with the swaying movements of the other. 

Finally, he tucks Dowoon’s shirt out of his sweatpants, and slips under the white cotton.  
He likes what he finds. 

Dowoon’s abs are very much as sculpted as they look. 

Doowoon leans into the touch, encouraging Wonpil to explore his skin. Two hands roaming,, Wonpil comes across a hardened nipple.  
Dowoon groans into his mouth.

“What the fuck?”

At the sudden scream and rumble, they jump apart as if electrocuted.  
Wonpil nearly falls off the bed, is only barely saved by a strong arm clutching onto his side.  
Hearts racing, they look around in shock. 

Shit.

The door is still closed, though. The lights are still off.

From outside comes bilingual swearing. 

They hear Jae taunting. “See? That’s what you get when you guys leave your shoes lying around everywhere!” 

Brian swears in Korean.

The following tell a story of shoes being thrown, doors being shut and ripped open again, Americans being strangled and beat. 

Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Wonpil and Dowoon breathe out in relief. 

Their moment is gone, as they’re suddenly too aware of their surroundings again.  
Dowoon’s ears turn red. Wonpil covers his blush with his sleeves. 

When his embarrassed hyung peeks through his fingers, Dowoon can’t help but laugh. At himself, at them both, at the entire situation. Wonpil buries his face again, but joins his dongsaeng in high-pitched giggles.  
It’s just a bit ridiculous.

They take a while to calm down. Whenever they catch each other’s eye, they break into giddy smiles again.  
It isn’t awkward, though. They’re in this together, and it’s the least awkward they’ve probably ever been. They know it all, now. Dowoon’s blushing and laughter and jokes. Wonpil’s need for affection, for getting close and never letting go. 

It’s new, but it’s familiar.  
They’re excited, but they’re just themselves. 

They tangle up on purpose, this time. 

“You’re really hot in chokers,” Dowoon says, as he pulls up their shared blanket.  
“Your jawline is really fucking sharp,” Wonpil retorts. He lays his head on Dowoon’s shoulder. The younger presses a soft kiss to the top of his head.  
Eyes already shut, Wonpil smiles.  
“Your teeth are so white”, Dowoon says through a yawn.

If Wonpil is having a deja-vu, he’s too tired to figure it out.

Dowoon’s arm lies lazy around Wonpil’s waist. Wonpil feels the rhythm of Dowoon’s heart beating.

It’s comfortable love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all! Was out of kpop for a bit. Saw Day6 live, Yoon Dowoon owns my heart, so here we are.  
> I'm not an English gal and also too proud for spell-checking, so please do point out any errors that may have escaped my perfectionist eye.  
> This fic is me fully procrastinating instead of continuing my actual, proper novel. If y'all want ice skating bois in your life, yell at me so I keep at that.  
> I love you and hope you have an amazing day!
> 
> P.S.: BTS and Sia?? The most ambitious crossover in MY lifetime!


	2. Moonrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonpil calls after him from inside the shower. “Dowoon-ah, wait, where’s your concealer?”
> 
> “It’s in the closet,” Dowoon yells.
> 
> Wonpil scoffs.

Dowoon’s first impression of his closest hyung was an understatement.   
The first time he laid eyes on Kim Wonpil, there was a swag-filled handshake, and it didn’t take much more for for him to know that Wonpil was a cheeky prankster.

Now, with their mutual attraction out in the open?  
Well, well.

Kim Wonpil is a fucking menace. 

The first morning of the rest of their lives was sweet enough. Dowoon awoke to a whisper of soft lips on his.   
Half-asleep still, he barely registered Wonpil slipping out to his own room, presumably to save face and get dressed before their manager came kicking down their doors at 7AM. 

There were shy smiles across the breakfast table. They’d shared the last of the fruity pebbles.

Dowoon thought his hyung’s choice of eating a banana a bit suggestive, at first, but quickly brushed it off as “that’s just how people eat fruit.”

Oh, sweet Yoon Dowoon.   
Oh, how the turntables...

It is an odd day of the week, so they go in reverse age order for their allotted bathroom times. Dowoon usually prefers going last, showering at his own pace without anyone rudely rushing him (unless their manager is having a bad day). Today, he resigns himself to his fate of speeding through his routine.

He’s somehow managing to brush his teeth and his hair at the same time, making use of his drummer’s hand-coordination. If he’s humming under his breath, it definitely isn’t their smash-it “I Like You”. It also isn’t “I’m Serious”, “My Day”, or “When You Love Someone”. Or all of the above.  
God, they have too many love songs.

There’s a rap of knuckles on the bathroom door. 

“Dowoon-ah, are you nearly done? Brian-hyung is already on my case for always taking too long, so…” It’s Wonpil.

Dowoon spits toothpaste into the sink. “I’m nearly done hyung, just gotta-”

“Great,” Wonpil interrupts, “I’ll come in then!” He barges in and, in one swift motion, pulls his turtleneck over his head and throws it onto the floor (the turtleneck, comments on which he had deflected with a biting “I’m cold. Cold as Brian-hyung’s eyes.”).   
Dowoon chokes on foam.

Wonpil halts in his movement and observes the younger boy currently coughing up half a lung. “Don’t die,” he quite unhelpfully and very shirtlessly supplies. Dowoon waves him off. He wipes tears from his face, rubbing mint into his eyes. It’s one of those days.

Through the mirror, he catches Wonpil continuing to undress. Dowoon blushes furiously. It’s not that he doesn’t want to watch, it’s just - it’s a lot. He stores away his toiletries, grabs his used towel and dashes past his hyung, out the door. 

Wonpil calls after him from inside the shower. “Dowoon-ah, wait, where’s your concealer?”  
“It’s in the closet,” Dowoon yells.  
Wonpil scoffs.

~

That afternoon, they pour into the greenroom backstage for their Seoul concert. They already got hair and makeup done at the salon, save for some touch-ups to salvage everything one they’ve devoured the catering buffet. If any makeup-artist had noticed the sloppily covered bruises on Wonpil’s neck, they had thankfully kept their observation to themself.

The stylists are there when they arrive. Clothing racks fill up half the room. There are two or three outfits to choose from for each of them. 

Sungjin and Wonpil start looking into clothing choices, while Brian, Dowoon and hungover Jae make a beeline for the buffet. Who could resist the smell of pizza, ramyeon and gimbap? They sure as hell can’t. They’re just men, after all. 

Dowoon busies himself wreaking havoc on half a pepperoni pie. It’s only after his food is reduced to nothingness, that he notices a distinct lack of Kim Wonpil. The other must have left the room to change. Since Jae is preoccupied scrolling through Twitter - on Brian’s phone, with Brian’s account - Dowoon steals a piece of ham-gimbap off his plate.

Two seconds later, he chokes on rice. 

Wonpil reappears. His shit-eating grin tells clear as day: He knows how he looks. He damn well knows. 

He’s gone for a rather simplistic style - which doesn’t mean he didn’t have every right to waltz in like a 5’ 7’’ supermodel in a Gucci show. A casual white tee (V-neck, thin fabric) tucked into black jeans (skinny, ripped) with a black belt. He’s foregone his trademark black loafers for shiny combat boots.   
Wonpil looks pretty great.

And naturally, because he’s Kim Wonpil, he throws their coughing maknae a wink. He then turns to his stylist. 

“Hyung, there’s a choker that goes with this, right?” 

Dowoon’s blush is instant. 

The man addressed looks up from the pile of Sungjin’s dress shirts. “Hm? Yeah, sure, Wonpil-ah. Do you need me to tie it for you?”

Wonpil goes for the kill. “No, it’s fine,” his honey-voice coos, “Dowoonie has time to tie it for me. Right, Dowoon-ah?”

Dowoon implodes.

For the first time in his career, he is thankful when their manager crashes their conversation. The older man beckons Wonpil and the stylist-hyung to speak with him in the far corner of the room.

Dowoon takes that cue to snatch a random outfit from his own clothing rack and disappear towards the bathroom. Dear God, he prays, let me get dressed in peace.

He ends up with a black band-tee and a short-sleeved flannel shirt, which is fine, he supposes. They have other people looking pretty. Once he’s drummed five songs he’ll be a sweaty mess, anyways. And, well, his killer-biceps are on display with this shirt. So he has nothing to worry about. 

Back in the greenroom, his eyes futilely search for a white-shirt-choker-clad beauty.   
Wonpil is sat on the couch, scarving done a gimbap roll. He looks to be moping. It seems that while Dowoon got caught up in conversation with their sound engineer on his way back, their manager had instructed Wonpil to change. Instead of his model style from earlier, he is now sporting a questionable (fashionable?) long-sleeved ensemble of a band-tee and a red undershirt with a conservatively high collar. 

Dowoon exhales in relief. 

After handing his own clothes to a stylist-noona, he plops down onto the cushions next to his sulking hyung. Wonpil senses his question.   
He gulps down a huge bite of gimbap, then sighs. “They made me change into something warmer, so I don’t catch a cold.” 

Dowoon sees Brian shrug on a skimpy dress shirt. Well, that couldn’t be any warmer.   
Confused, he begins: “Wha-”   
“It’s because I told them I was cold, this morning.” Oh. 

Dowoon breaks out into bellowing laughter, quickly disguising it as a cough.   
“Stop coughing,” Wonpil advises, “or they’ll put you in a winter coat.” 

Dowoon pulls himself together. Wonpil complains when Dowoon picks a piece of gimbap off his plate, but allows the younger to relax against his side, regardless. 

They eat in comfortable silence, unbothered by the business around them. When they’re done, Dowoon flicks a corn of rice off Wonpil’s shirt. They smile at each other.

“So, no choker today?”, Dowoon asks shily. “I don’t think so, sorry”, Wonpil laughs, “with this neckline, I might really choke myself with it.” Dowoon’s eyes widen. “Hyung, don’t be sorry then! No one wants you to hurt. Ever.” 

Wonpil hums, then ruffles Dowoon’s hair with a grin. “They say beauty is pain, though. Someone has to look good around here, if we want to upset the netizens with our shocking beauty.”   
Dowoon frowns. 

He turns on the couch to fully face his hyung. He catches Wonpil’s hand, which was reaching for one of Sungjin’s pizza slices, mid air. Wonpil raises one eyebrow, but compliantly turns to hold Dowoon’s gaze. Dowoon speaks in an earnest, low voice. “Hyung”, he says, “you always look beautiful, no matter what you wear.”

It’s Wonpil’s turn to blush. 

~

The concert goes incredibly well. Halfway through the setlist, energy is high among the crowd and the band. They’d just wrapped up their medley of American pop songs and their own, and surrendered the stage for Jae’s solo piece. Grimy guitar chords and sweet English vocals filter through the arena. The crowd is calm and silent, listening in awe.

Backstage, Dowoon’s heart is threatening to burst out of his chest. Once Jae strikes his last chord, they will be up for “I Think About You”. He will have to sing, and it’ll be terrible.

They go on in two minutes. Wonpil is nowhere to be seen.

Dowoon usually doesn’t panic before performing, anymore, having grown accustomed to the thousands of eyes that rest on them when they’re on stage. He has come to enjoy the excitement and energy more than he fears the scrutiny and flashing lights. As long as he gets to sit behind his drums, he can keep himself calm by watching the steady beats his hands create. He knows that he’s good enough at drumming, that, except for rare mistakes like breaking a drumstick or skipping a song, his performances are consistently capable and solid.

Singing, though? That’s a different issue entirely. He is 100 percent sure that he isn’t solid in that field, having been told just that by teachers, coaches and friends throughout his life. Their fans support him whenever he tries, but they also cheer for Sungjin’s dancing and Jae’s aegyo, so he can’t be sure they aren’t entirely biased. Even on the odd chance that with his hyungs’ help, his singing had improved enough to not be a total embarrassment for everyone involved, he thinks it’s natural that around such outstanding vocalists like his hyungs, he could never shake off the feeling of being “less than”. 

This performance, in a best case scenario, could turn out to be “not that bad”. 

Dowoon is pacing, his heart is beating like crazy, as he thinks of the seemingly unattainable outcome of the performance being “OK”, and because the second half of his duo is still nowhere to be found. 

He is about to throw up from anxiety, when Wonpil comes sprinting down the backstage hallway. It takes only a split second of Dowoon trembling before his lover engulfs him in a giant hug. 

With his head on Wonpil’s shoulder, Dowoon starts tearing up. “Hyung”, he whines. 

Wonpil sniffles against Dowoon’s shirt. “Don’t you dare cry,” he complains. “If you start crying, I will cry with you. And if I start bawling now, I won’t survive ‘You Were Beautiful’. I’m really serious, don’t.”

“Okay.” Dowoon laughs through his tears. “I’ll stop.”   
They part. 

They stand in the dark backstage hallway, which in about thirty second will be flooded by staff ushering them out and onstage. They have just one more moment to themselves.

Wonpil holds one of Dowoon’s calloused hands, drawing calming circles on its back with his thumb. His free hand reaches out to caress Dowoon’s face, to wipe away his tears. Dowoon closes his eyes and leans into the touch. “You know, it’s actually really good that you’re nervous,” Wonpil says. “Being nervous means that you want to show you’re all, that you’re eager to go on and do your best. And it’s really cool and admirable that you’re learning to do something new, you know.”

Dowoon just whines in frustration.

“Well, there’s no way around it now, so let’s do our best, alright?”. When Dowoon doesn’t respond, instead frowning and scrunching up his nose, Wonpil goes all out.   
“Let’s twy our bwest, Dowoonie~ Alwight? Hm? Hmm?”   
He goes full aegyo, with a super-high voice, cutely wiggles his butt and even pokes Dowoon’s cheek for good measure.   
Dowoon doesn’t stand a chance. 

“Stop it, hyung, please! I beg you!” Wonpil of course doesn’t listen, dropping Dowoon’s hand to do finger guns and shoot him a wink.   
Dowoon is ready to cry for completely different reasons, now.

With Wonpil standing in front of him, grinning from ear to ear, he nearly forgets to be nervous.

Wonpil snaps his fingers. “Ah, wait, I’m forgetting something! You know I would never disappoint you.” Turning away secretively, he pulls something out of his skinny jeans’ backpocket. 

“Arm”, he commands. 

Dowoon complacently extends his left one towards Wonpil. The older tries to cover whatever he’s doing with his back and shoulder, but Dowoon is tall enough to just glimpse over top of his hyung. 

With the nimble fingers of a seasoned pianist, Wonpil is quickly tying something around Dowoon’s wrist. It’s a coarse black string, from the looks and feel of it, with a small silver circular pendant attached.

Is that…?

“Done!”, Wonpil announces. He grabs a hold of Dowoon’s arm again and excitedly shoves the wrist under Dowoon’s nose for closer inspection. 

This menace of a man.

Around the drummer’s arm, tied in a pretty bow and secured with a neat double knot, rests Wonpil’s favourite choker.   
Dowoon wants to scream. 

Wonpil plays up the aegyo again. “It’s a good luck charm, Dowoonie! If this reminds you of how much you love me, you can’t mess up your singing at all~!” In the blink of an eye, he presses a soft peck to Dowoon’s jaw and speeds away to meet the stage manager wildly gesturing down the hall. 

Dowoon is still figuring out what just happened, when it’s finally time to go on.

If his blush on stage is even more furious than usual, he’s sure that no one figures it out.

~

The performance goes alright in Dowoon’s book. He doesn’t forget any lyrics. No one in the crowd starts booing. His drumming is perfect, and so is Wonpil. All in all, it shouldn’t have been too bad. He is glad it’s over, though. 

Contrarily, Wonpil is over the moon. While the VCR plays between “Congratulations” and the encore, the pianoman can’t stop gushing to anyone who will listen. Even as they are changing into their concert merch, Wonpil wouldn’t shut up.   
“Did you hear Dowoonie sing? He’s so good now, isn’t he? He should go off and record his own tracks! I shouldn't be singing any longer, let’s just have Dowoonie do it! Aigoo, he was so cute, wasn’t he? So hardworking, he did so well! Did you hear his voice?!”   
All in one breath.

Dowoon didn’t register much during the duet, too concentrated on pulling through to take in the atmosphere. The members reassure them that there’d been ecstatic applause. Apparently, the audience had especially enjoyed their harmonies. When Dowoon watches a recording later, he will see how the fans had also squealed at every time Wonpil couldn’t contain his megawatt smile.

They make it to the dorm around 12 AM, after the encore, VIP hi-touch, changing, a de-briefing, and the half hour drive home. Tomorrow, their manager informs them, their first schedule will start at 2 PM. They very nearly cry tears of joy at that. 

Among the members, it’s common consensus that showering twice a day is a waste of time and effort. Sweaty and smelly as they are, they convene in the kitchen for forbidden late night snacks and stupid concert-high jokes, before dispersing into their rooms for a good night’s sleep. 

Dowoon barely musters up the energy to push himself up from the kitchen table. He drags himself past the white walls and stumbles through his door. The concert-high has made way for post-concert depression and the exhaustion of an equally demanding and stressful day. 

With significant effort, Dowoon takes on the herculean task of changing out of his hoodie and sweatpants, and into a tee and sweatpants. It’s nearly the same, but it isn’t. He’s ready to be absolutely relaxed. 

He sneaks out and finds the bathroom empty. Seizing this rare chance, he lazily washes his face and brushes his teeth. Before leaving, he throws a quick look in the mirror and fixes his hair. You never know when you need to look good.

He schlepps himself into his room again, and directly into his bed. Instead of just falling in, he lies close to the wall, leaving a 5’7’’-sized space and half a blanket up for grabs. 

He is determined to stay awake. For one, there’s no point in dozing off now, if any given moment an excited vocalist is going to hop in, squish his cheeks and applaud him for singing in the right key. But what’s more - Dowoon can’t wait to have his tiny hyung in his arm, can’t wait to tell the other how thankful he is for their work together, how proud he is to not have failed his hyung. How blessed he feels for having met the right person, at the right time, to be able to do what he loves with someone he loves. 

You can imagine his disappointment when, after what seemed like hours and days in the dark, no Incheon boy disrupts the brooding silence. 

He debates with himself for a little while, weighing the comfort of his warm duvet against a late night talk with his favorite hyung.  
It’s a close call, but, in the end, his heart manages the huge upset against his laziness. 

With a sigh, he kicks off his blanket and gets out of bed.

He heads for the room at the far end of the hall, the one with the door that has a pink bunny sticker.  
On tiptoe, he invites himself in. 

The lights are on, inside. The room is meticulously clean. The piano in the corner is polished more brightly than any of Dowoon’s cymbals could dream to be. There’s only one thing amiss in this perfectionists’ paradise: Strangely across the neatly made bed lies Kim Wonpil, fully clothed and fast asleep.  
It’s one of the cutest things Dowoon has ever seen. 

His hyung seems to have been knocked out as soon as he contact with the bed. His feet are awkwardly dangling over the edge of the mattress. His head fell just short of the mandatory two pillows. If one hadn’t been sure of how exhausted Wonpil was, this drastic break with his “two-pillows”-policy was definitive proof. 

Wonpil looked angelic like this, to Dowoon’s eyes. The straight black hair, long and soft, spread like a halo around his head. His peaceful face, completely at ease after running at 110 percent for a full day. His beautiful eyes, usually the starkest characteristic of his, now shut and fluttering slightly with the images of a dream. 

Dowoon sends a quick prayer to the gods. Please, don’t let anything disturb his hyung’s slumber.

In movements so slow they might be invisible to the eye, he turns off the lights and closes the door. So carefully as if handling grenades, he lifts up his hyung’s legs and shifts him to lay comfortably, then lifts his head and shoves two pillows underneath. He considers relieving the elder of his stuffy turtleneck sweater, but quickly decides against it. Undressing the other could wait for another day, and another time.

Dowoon slips underneath the blanket and cuddles up to his hyung. This is the first time he hadn’t been used as a living neck support. He inches close to the sleeping boy. Watching Wonpil’s chest slowly rise and fall, Dowoon lets go of all concerns of the day, of all he wanted to say. There will be a next morning. And a next day. And a next night.

When he interlocks his fingers with his lover’s on the pillow, Wonpil stirs. Dowoon comes close to a heart attack. 

But Wonpil doesn’t wake. He mumbles in a dream. 

“Dowoonie. I love you.”

Dowoon smiles. “I love you too, hyung. A lot.”

After making sure that Wonpil is sound asleep again, he finally welcomes the familiar drowsiness and closes his eyes. 

Maybe they couldn’t manage to set apart time to prepare any grand gestures to express what they feel, within the strenuous schedules that come with living your dream. But as long as they show each other little by little, as long as they think of each other whenever life allows, every moment, to them, is precious.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before y’all come for me for plagiarism: Yes. The last paragraph is just lyrics from “I Think About You”. It’s a great song. I’m German. I’m not poetic like that. 
> 
> I showed the iconic DoPil performance to my mum this week, explaining its significance in my life and why Yoon Dowoon will be the perfect son in law.   
> Her reaction was, AND I QUOTE, “Uh huh. That’s.. nice.”  
> I was shook, shaken, disgusted and upset. 
> 
> I’ll be back when I’ve written enough for my proper novel that I can steal all the cheesy phrases to misuse them for a fanfic chapter again.
> 
> I wish you a most wonderful day, my dudes. Keep happy and healthy and power through!
> 
> *confused Felix voice* uwu


End file.
